Part 3 (2/2)

What a happy time was that! The privations were become second nature; the weather was still fine. The morning Gardens were a glow of pink and purple and dripping diamonds, and on some of the trees was the delicate green of a second blossoming, like hope in the heart of age.

They could scarcely refrain from betraying their exultation to the Hotel des Tourterelles, from which they had concealed their sufferings. But the polyglot population seething round its malodorous stairs and tortuous corridors remained ignorant that anything was pa.s.sing in the life of these faded old creatures, and even on the day of drawing lots for the Wig the exuberant hotel retained its imperturbable activity.

Not that they really drew lots. That was a figure of speech, difficult to translate into facts. They preferred to spin a coin. Madame Depine was to toss, the ”Princess” to cry _pile ou face_. From the stocking Madame Depine drew, naturally enough, the solitary five-franc piece.

It whirled in the air; the ”Princess” cried _face_. The puff-puff of the steam-tram sounded like the panting of anxious Fate. The great coin fell, rolled, balanced itself between two destinies, then subsided, _pile_ upwards. The poor ”Princess's” face grew even longer; but for the life of her Madame Depine could not make her own face other than a round red glow, like the sun in a fog. In fact, she looked so young at this supreme moment that the brown wig quite became her.

”I congratulate you,” said Madame Valiere, after the steam-tram had become a far-away rumble.

”Before next summer we shall have yours too,” the winner reminded her consolingly.

XI

They had not waited till the hundred francs were actually in the stocking. The last few would acc.u.mulate while the wig was making. As they sat at their joyous breakfast the next morning, ere starting for the hairdresser's, the cas.e.m.e.nt open to the October suns.h.i.+ne, Jacques brought up a letter for Madame Valiere--an infrequent incident.

Both old women paled with instinctive distrust of life. And as the ”Princess” read her letter, all the sympathetic happiness died out of her face.

”What is the matter, then?” breathed Madame Depine.

The ”Princess” recovered herself. ”Nothing, nothing. Only my nephew who is marrying.”

”Soon?”

”The middle of next month.”

”Then you will need to give presents!”

”One gives a watch, a bagatelle, and then--there is time. It is nothing. How good the coffee is this morning!”

They had not changed the name of the brew: it is not only in religious evolutions that old names are a comfort.

They walked to the hairdresser's in silence. The triumphal procession had become almost a dead march. Only once was the silence broken.

”I suppose they have invited you down for the wedding?” said Madame Depine.

”Yes,” said Madame Valiere.

They walked on.

The _coiffeur_ was at his door, sunning his ap.r.o.ned stomach, and twisting his moustache as if it were a customer's. Emotion overcame Madame Depine at the sight of him. She pushed Madame Valiere into the tobacconist's instead.

”I have need of a stamp,” she explained, and demanded one for five centimes. She leaned over the counter babbling aimlessly to the proprietor, postponing the great moment. Madame Valiere lost the clue to her movements, felt her suddenly as a stranger. But finally Madame Depine drew herself together and led the way into the _coiffeurs_. The proprietor, who had reentered his parlour, reemerged gloomily.

Madame Valiere took the word. ”We are thinking of ordering a wig.”

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